Luisa had been comfortable. Safe. He had needed that, then.
But Maribel challenged him. He had to work to keep up with her blade-sharp wit and fiery intelligence. He needed that, now.
Needed her.
For her part, she told him that the supply of interesting men in the village was vanishingly small, particularly since so many around her age had gone to work at the lab. Aguilar had initially been a curiosity, but he had become something much more valuable: a friend, a companion, a confidant, and a lover.
But she wouldn’t—couldn’t—make a life with someone who lived with violence as a daily prospect. Things had been peaceful, these last weeks since Escobar’s tooth had healed. The airstrip expansion was going well, the new workers were catching on, production was up. Escobar had even brought whores in, as promised, though Aguilar had no interest in them.
Everyone was happy, and for a time, it had almost seemed like his job wasn’t one of murder and torture and death.
But it was. This was a respite, that was all. It couldn’t last.
More and more, though, it was his romance with Maribel that he wanted to last. And it wouldn’t, unless he broke with Escobar.
He couldn’t have both.
He was thinking about these things as he patrolled the next night. The memory of the jaguar encounter—imaginary though it might have been—was so vivid he felt he could still smell the beast, although he hadn’t smelled anything at all after it had gone.
And it hadn’t really told him anything, just prodded him to examine his life. It had undoubtedly been his subconscious, bringing to the forefront of his mind a reality that he had been trying hard to push away.
He wanted Maribel.
He wanted a life with her. A peaceful, decent life, even here in the jungle. He had money put away, and she said she didn’t need much. Her home was simple but comfortable, and when he was there with her he felt like he belonged.
He had been disgusted with himself ever since Miami, when he saw the devastation caused by cocaine, and he’d been forced to torture his friend. Maribel offered a second chance, a way out.
He had never been a proper sicario in the first place. He had always questioned everything, doubted himself. You couldn’t take a man who’d always been a butcher and turn him into a ballerina. He had been a student, a cop, middle class or close to it. The sicarios were poor kids, with no hope and no prospects. He wasn’t a good fit.
With Maribel, he fit just right.
She could keep her job with Dr. Mesa, and he could find some kind of work. He could become a farmer, a hunter.
First he had to leave El Patrón, though.
That wouldn’t be easy. Escobar didn’t take defection lightly. He would believe that Aguilar knew too much to simply let him walk away. He would want to end Aguilar’s career with bullets.
Unless…
Unless he could convince Escobar that he had always been loyal, always faithful, and would remain so.
Escobar had no reason to doubt him, after all. He had always followed orders. No matter what Escobar had demanded of him, he’d found a way to do it. He had become one of Don Pablo’s most trusted, valued men.
He would appeal to the man’s reason. “I’m getting old,” he would say. “I’m tired of running around, killing people. I just want to settle down someplace, raise a family. You’re a family man, you understand that.”
Escobar had always been fair with him. He had appreciated Aguilar’s service, had treated him almost as a member of the family. As had Tata, and if Escobar did anything to hurt him, she would be furious.
He had been worrying for nothing, he decided. He would finish up this shift and sleep for a while. When Escobar woke up, he would explain his situation. There would be a brief discussion, and then Aguilar would climb on his new motorcycle and ride out of the jungle, probably with a gift of several thousand pesos in his pocket.
He trained his flashlight on his wrist to check his watch. He had almost lost track of the time. Twice an hour, the two patrols were supposed to check in with each other. They had prearranged spots where their routes intersected, and he was late getting to the nearest.
He hurried. The jungle seemed especially close tonight, especially dark, and even the insects seemed to have hushed, for a change.
When he reached the small clearing, he saw Trigger, sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, facing away from him.
“Trigger,” Aguilar said. “I’m here, man. Sorry I’m late.”
Trigger didn’t move. Had he fallen asleep? Aguilar wasn’t that late. A few minutes, that’s all.
He crossed the clearing and touched Trigger’s shoulder.
Trigger flopped over backward, falling off the trunk. Aguilar clicked on his flashlight to check him.
Where his face should have been was a bloody, pulpy mess. His eyes dangled from their sockets, the bones of his nose gleamed white, his teeth looked huge. Only the flesh was missing.
No jungle beast had done that, he thought. Terrified, he whipped the flashlight around the clearing, in case whoever had attacked Trigger was still here.
And there it was, pinned to a tree with a knife.
Trigger’s face.
36
AGUILAR FIRED THREE shots into the air, the prearranged signal for trouble. He tried to pick the shortest route back to the house, but he’d become turned around in the clearing, and wasn’t thinking straight. He ran for several minutes, not seeing the lights from the labs or the house, when he found himself at the edge of the airstrip. He’d gone in entirely the wrong direction.
But from the airstrip, it was a straight shot back to the house. He raced in that direction, and fired three more shots for good measure.
Then he heard more gunshots, many of them.
The lab was under attack.
He shut off the flashlight. Showing his position would only get him killed, either by the attackers or by his own men, if they thought he was the enemy.
The path from the airstrip to the lab was wide and well traveled, so moonlight shone down, illuminating his course. He moved quickly but quietly, keeping an eye out for anyone, friend or foe.
He was almost at the original lab—he could see the bare bulbs hanging from the tin roof through the trees—when he spotted three men moving toward it. They were crouching, carrying old rifles with beat-up wooden stocks. Villagers, he thought. Maribel had been right; they had come to take over, without realizing what they were up against.
He brought the AR-15 to his shoulder, sighted in on the man on the left, and opened fire, drawing the gun from left to right as he squeezed out round after round. All three went down without returning his fire.
From the direction of the lab, someone started shooting at him. He threw himself to the ground, then raised his head enough to shout, “It’s me! Jaguar! I just shot some attackers!”
Nobody answered, but the shots stopped coming his way. The lights at the labs went off—someone had finally been smart enough to pull the plugs. Aguilar risked showing himself again. Nothing. He clicked on his flashlight and heard voices raised in alarm, so he shone it on himself. Then he heard a shout of welcome, and he pushed through the brush until he reached the lab.
Most of the other sicarios had been awakened and rushed into the night in their underwear, pausing only long enough to grab guns that were always loaded and ready.
La Quica was in the lead, sprinting across the open space toward the lab. A villager lunged from the darkness, his machete flashing in the moonlight. Aguilar fired by reflex, and the attacker tumbled in the dirt and was still.
“For a second I thought you were shooting at me,” La Quica said. “You saved my ass, man. I owe you, big time. I didn’t even see him.”
“I could tell,” Aguilar said.
“Who are these guys?” La Quica asked. “What did you see?”
“They got Trigger. The bastards took his face off and stuck it to a tree. I killed three of them, over there. They had old guns,
rifles. I think they’re from the village.”
“The village? They’re not from some other cartel? I thought they were trying to take our lab.”
“They are, but for themselves.” He remembered Maribel’s warning, which he had passed on to Escobar, but hadn’t shared with all the other guys.
“How many are there?” Shorty asked.
Before Aguilar could answer—not that he had any idea—the sharp cracks of rifle fire split the quiet and rounds smashed into the lab equipment around them.
Aguilar and the others ducked, scanning the dark for muzzle flashes. When they saw them, they sprayed rounds in those directions.
“If they want the lab for themselves, they shouldn’t destroy all the equipment!” Pancho said.
Then more rounds came in, from another direction, closer to the house. “Is anyone in there with Don Pablo?” Poison asked.
“I think somebody stayed back,” La Quica said.
“I’ll check,” Aguilar said. He had his own reasons for wanting Escobar’s approval right now. He made a dash toward the house, running hunched over, firing into the dark whenever a muzzle flash offered a target. Bullets whined past him, but none struck home.
Approaching the house, he saw a shadowy figure in the doorway. At first he thought it was someone else coming out, but then realized it was someone going in. He didn’t recognize the man from behind, but clicked on his light. The man was a stranger—not a laborer or a sicario. He carried a revolver and a machete. At the sound of the flashlight, he started to spin around, but Aguilar pumped three rounds into him and he fell. Aguilar dragged him away from the door, still alive but probably not for long, and kicked the machete and gun away from his side.
He went in. “Don Pablo!” he called. “Gustavo! Camilo! Are you here?”
Escobar emerged from his room. He was wearing boxer shorts and a strapped undershirt and had a pistol in each hand. “Jaguar! What’s going on out there?”
“The villagers,” Aguilar said. “Like I told you, they’ve come to take over the lab. Who’s in here with you?”
“Nobody. Gustavo and Camilo, I guess.”
Gaviria came into the hall carrying an AR-15. “Camilo’s under his bed,” he said. “I emptied a magazine out my window, but I don’t know if I hit anyone.”
“Go to the bathroom,” Aguilar said. “Lock the door and get in the tub. I’ll be here at the door to make sure nobody gets in.”
“You think I’d run from a fight?” Escobar asked.
“I know you wouldn’t,” Aguilar said. “But you’re the most important of us. I need to keep you safe, and that’s the safest place.”
“Come on, Pablo,” Gaviria said. “He’s right.”
Escobar scowled. Aguilar thought part of him really wanted to stay and do battle against the invaders. But there was another part that was more than willing to seek safe harbor. He relented and followed Gaviria into an interior bathroom.
Aguilar went back to the doorway. The house had windows all around it, and he couldn’t defend all of those alone. But he could keep anyone from coming through the door. He switched off the light in the entryway so he wouldn’t be silhouetted against it, and looked outside.
The battle was fully joined. Sicarios defending the labs had spread out, and villagers fired on them from the cover of the trees. Aguilar dropped to a crouch and brought his AR-15 to his shoulder, scanning for a glimpse of a target. Whenever he saw one, he sighted and put a round there. The occasional pained cry told him that he found his mark at least some of the time.
But there were cries from the labs, as well. Some of Escobar’s men had been hit. He wondered how many villagers there were, and whether enough sicarios remained to hold them off. There would be a certain sick irony in being killed right before he told Escobar he was quitting.
Then a pack of villagers broke from the trees, rushing the house, shooting. Wood chips flew into his face, cutting him, and one round scraped across his leg. Aguilar scrambled back inside, firing as he did.
The entryway was an open space with a small iron-legged table against one wall, where Camilo left his keys and hat when he went inside. It opened into the dining room and a sitting room on one side. The door to the kitchen was behind those, and on the other side was the bathroom door and the hallway to the bedrooms.
No real cover anywhere.
Aguilar ducked under the table, which had a glass top. Its legs were thin and wouldn’t block many bullets, but it was the best he could do and still be able to watch the door.
When attackers crowded into the doorway, he opened fire. He let the barrel drift up as he shot. There were so many people trying to come in, he could hardly help hitting something with each round.
The group thinned out more as sicarios rushed it from behind. Aguilar wrenched himself out from under the table and darted to the door, kicking guns away from the dying and finishing off the wounded. At the doorway he looked out, seeing only his own people. He heard a few last gunshots, and gradually silence returned, except for the moans of the injured and the hushed voices of sicarios.
“Is everyone okay?” he asked. He dragged bodies away from the door, his nostrils filling with blood and sweat and urine. One of them he recognized as the man who’d made so many objections, that day in the plaza. The guy with the gold teeth.
“Shorty and Royer are dead,” La Quica said. “Sure Shot’s hit, but not too bad. The labs are trashed, though.”
Aguilar remembered his leg. The heat of the moment had caused him to forget it. He put down the AR-15, turned the lights on, and dropped his jeans. Blood had glued his pants leg to his flesh, but he peeled it away. Just a scrape, with fibers from his jeans embedded in it.
He was lucky. They were all lucky, except for poor Trigger, Shorty, and Royer.
Behind him, Escobar and Gaviria came out of the bathroom. “Are you playing with yourself, Jaguar?” Escobar asked.
Aguilar whirled around, a blush already rising on his face. He pointed to the bloody patch on his leg. “I was hit,” he said. “I’m just checking it out. It’s just a flesh wound. But Royer, Shorty, and Trigger are dead.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all I’ve heard about.”
“What about the laborers?”
They slept in a camp on the far side of the house from the lab. As far as he knew, they had stayed on their bedrolls through the whole thing. Or joined in. “I don’t know. La Quica said the labs are just about destroyed, though.”
“Damn!” Escobar said.
“We’ll have to rebuild,” Gaviria said.
“Which means more weeks here. We’ll have to bring in all new equipment. Probably new chemicals as well. And we’ll have to hope the laborers are okay, and willing to keep working. Remember, I’m due to take office in Congress in less than a month.”
“It won’t take that long, Pablo. And if it does, you’ll go to Bogotá and I’ll stay here and finish up.”
La Quica and the other sicarios straggled inside, two of them helping Sure Shot, who was bleeding from a wound at his ribs.
“How bad is that?” Escobar asked.
“Not too bad,” Sure Shot said, grimacing with pain. “I’ll live.”
“Damn it,” Escobar said. “They’ve put us back weeks. Are we sure it was people from the village?”
“I recognized one of them,” Aguilar said. “He challenged us, that day we went to the villages to find workers.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“I’m positive.” He told Escobar about the gold teeth, and the round wound on his torso.
At the mention of teeth, Escobar rubbed his jaw.
“It’s that fucking dentist,” he said. “We shouldn’t have brought him here. He told them how to find us.”
“Patrón, no!” Aguilar said. “He and Maribel were blindfolded both ways. They couldn’t see a thing, I made sure of it.”
“Blindfolds aren’t always that effective. You can’t tell—you’re not the
one looking through it.”
“I’m positive it wasn’t them, Don Pablo. Maribel’s the one who warned us about the villagers, remember?”
“Of course she did. Because she knew they were planning to attack. But she didn’t tell you when they were coming, did she?”
“If she had known, she would have. I know it.”
Escobar eyed him with what seemed like contempt. “You’ve been spending every spare moment with that bitch,” he said. “I trusted you, Jaguar, but I don’t think I can now.”
“I stayed right here and defended the door! If not for me, they would have come inside and found you.”
“We were ready for them,” Gaviria said. He was still holding the AR-15.
“La Quica, take some of the guys. Leave Jaguar and Sure Shot here, but take the best of the others. I want the heads of that dentist and his assistant in front of me within two hours. We’ll put them on posts as a warning not to betray me.”
“Don Pablo, you can’t—”
“I’ll deal with you later, Jaguar. After I’ve seen those heads. Somebody make sure Jaguar stays in his room.”
La Quica nodded his assent. He picked Pancho, Jairo, and Brayan. Sure Shot went into the bathroom to tend to his wound, while Poison and Big Badmouth went out to check on the laborers and to make sure the villagers didn’t come back. That left Gordo with Aguilar, Gaviria, and Escobar. And presumably Camilo, who hadn’t come out of his room yet.
“Where do you want us, Patrón?” Gordo asked.
“Out of my sight,” Escobar said. Disgust was plain in his voice. “Take his guns, though. And his claw.”
Gordo held out his hands. Aguilar gauged his chances, but the other three men all had guns, and he’d already put down his rifle. He tugged the pistol from his belt and handed it over, then took his knife from his ankle.
“Let’s go into the bedroom,” Gordo said. He set the gun on the glass-topped table and carried the knife in his left hand.
For a while, they sat in silence. Aguilar heard water running from the bathroom, which was probably Sure Shot trying to clean his wound. Aguilar hoped his didn’t become infected, since he hadn’t had a chance to do the same, or to bandage it.
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